


Oh, Marcelle!

by boychik



Category: Histoire de l'œil | Story of the Eye - Georges Bataille
Genre: Multi, tfw five-paragraph essay, trash erotica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-12
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-08-08 06:50:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7747420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boychik/pseuds/boychik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Should we have left you there, sweetest Marcelle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Marcelle!

Should we have left you there, sweetest Marcelle? A mouth like a peach, no, a raspberry. The peaks of your budding breasts, too, like two raspberries under the white cloth of your nightdress, pressing, fluttering, yearning to escape their prison of a chrysalis. Like a butterfly pinned under glass, you waved in the air. Like delicate antennae, your feelers were out, your wet lips parted. Head back, white throat bobbing, do you even know how sensuous you were, Marcelle? Your skin rivaled the thin shells of the eggs we cracked daily for our pleasure. How we wished Marcelle too would ripple deep and split!

Should we have left you to wail, sped off giggling on our bikes like lunatics under the full moon, full as your cheeks as you smiled, leering in joy, full as the mean of the wax and wane of your sane beauty distended in gold. Two handprints dragged on the inside of the cabinet doors, your inspirational desperation.

In truth we savored your desperation, your wanton unspooling. Wanted, unwanted, hidden and forever revealed. Half in shroud you could not disguise your desire to watch. Your masochism, the golden stream gushing forth from your body, from the site of a new fresh berry. Unbidden and fantastic, a tantalizing smell, a spell cast.

Flushed and crying, your white face looked like the moon fallen into the sea. Mythic Marcelle, it was a lovely look on you, a purity of color that perfectly reflected Simone's curious and depraved convolutions. Your convulsions spurred her to open her legs, draw her fingers out, and approach you bearing the fresh taste of a new berry. She offered you her saliva and the gloss of the albumin smeared with tasteful abandon and disarray across your virgin body, all we held sacred. She would adorn you with a crown from gold to pink to brown and listen to your frisson sighs--oh, Marcelle, what a coronation!

When we rolled into the sanitorium that day, drove at the windows, pelted the panes with pebbles, we held our breath in gasps in hopes you would appear. You did not disappoint but pressed up against the glass like the old days. Curtains framed you, froze you in a parallelogram of light. Your lips lolled, soundlessly; your hair streamed like an overflowing river; your flower's eyes ever so lovely always were ringed with grey and sick, a virgin impenetrable sickness. Our mourning was celebration, unfurling, primal.

We loved you, Marcelle, truly, it was not just the charming flush of your red berries or the bouquet and glint of your outpouring. In your twin cages, ripped gossamer and labyrinthine mind, your wails pierced our hearts and sent us tumbling from mountain to grave. There we could not help but lie among the dead and place eggs in exciting places, kiss and quiver among the ferns and wreaths, swallow yolks as yellow as your hair, burnished by the sun bright and ravishing, leaning to kiss the dead soul of a priest. You may never be found, Marcelle, our peace is a fragmentary spurt of blood and bone. Around and around, the mandala holds you tight and will sway you home. You know we were your most decadent worshippers. Going to the sun where your essence will be burned, an offering. Simone and I, we will lie on our backs and receive you as we open our mouths to your innocent rain.


End file.
